


lighthouse on the sea

by SolaSola



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 01 Season 01: Fantasy High Freshman Year (Dimension 20), Campaign 01 Season 02: Fantasy High Sophomore Year (Dimension 20), Campaign 03 Season 01: The Unsleeping City, F/M, Gen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolaSola/pseuds/SolaSola
Summary: A collection of prompt fills (1-2k each) from Tumblr, based on a list of "alternative ways to say 'I love you.'"1. (tuc1) adjusting the pace they walk in so you can catch up + Ricky/Esther2. (fhfy)  “I’ll wait for you.” + Gorgug & Fig3. (fhsy) quietly trading food you know other likes + Aelwyn & Adaine4. (fhsy) heard you tell the same story multiple times but doesn’t point it out to you when you excitedly bring it up to them again + Riz & Gorgug5. (fhfy) knows your schedule from the back of their heads (and gets shocked when there is a sudden change to your routine) + Fig & Riz6. (fhsy) believing in you even when you couldn’t do it yourself + Fig/Ayda
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	1. Ricky/Esther

**Author's Note:**

> The character listed first in the pairing in the summary is the POV character (Ricky, Gorgug, Aelwyn, Riz).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 23\. adjusting the pace they walk in so you can catch up + rickyesther 
> 
> (i maybe decided to make this “adjusting the pace their magical steed runs in/adjusting their fly speed by burning a third level slot” instead, but what can i say? rickyesther are the magical power couple of new york and i simply can’t stop them)

Ana and Amelia have finally won out in their battle to get Esther to do things like “put down your work at reasonable person hours” and “go hang out with Ricky, you know you want to” and “live a little oh my GOD Esther you’re such a nerd” and she’s absolutely never going to tell them they were right. It is nice, actually, to be emerging from the subway steps and still have a snatch of golden hour to walk the last bit home in, and Esther’s only half paying attention when she checks her phone and finds #marchinjanuary absolutely blowing up her notifications. 

It only takes a second to realize that for once, she’s back in Clinton Hill in time for Ricky to be out for his usual jog (and subsequent social media hysteria). It only takes a second after that for a black-and-white blur to dash through the corner of her vision and for Esther to realize he and Ox are right there. Sure enough, she peeks over through the trees of the little park on the corner and there they are, running along back towards the chantry, probably on the return leg of their usual loop. 

Esther feels her pace pick up almost unconsciously, combat boots tapping over pavement as she passes a slow-walking pack of tourists. Esther’s a born and bred New Yorker, someone who’s built a life around always having places to go and things to do. She can walk fucking fast when she wants. And right now, she wants. 

It’s a little absurd, she can admit, because Ricky is the kind of person who runs for fun and Esther knows they’ll both be back at the apartment in just a few blocks anyway. But it’s been a good day and Esther just wants to surprise him, just wants to see his face as soon as she can. She walks faster. 

Her job is to know things, and the only thing Esther knows better than New York arcane history minutia is a certain Ricky Matsui. When she sees the head of black spiky hair up ahead round a corner, she knows the rest of his route. Esther’s barely paying attention to the other pedestrians as she takes a hard right—she’s got a shortcut. 

Fuck it, she’s wearing comfortable boots. Esther tucks her tote bag more securely under one arm and lets herself break into a run, for no real reason except that she wants to and that she can. She can understand a little of why Ricky likes to run for fun when her boots are thumping satisfyingly against sidewalk and she’s in the smooth rhythm of sidestepping slower walkers, but Esther keeps her eyes on the prize. She’s looking for the hottest, luckiest man in New York, and her boyfriend should be rounding this corner any second now.

She catches up to him in just a few seconds, muttering a “sorry!” over her shoulder at some poor pedestrian she almost clobbered with her bag of books as she ducks through the crowd. 

“Esther!” Ricky visibly does a double take when she comes up beside him, and his whole face lights up. She’s caught him, and he looks so handsome like this that Esther just has to lean over and kiss him hello, quick and sweet. 

Ricky drops to a slow jog to match Esther walking and runs a hand through his hair, just making it messier. He’s sweaty-gross and good lord, he hasn’t even stopped, just turned around and started jogging backwards so he can face her, but her boyfriend’s smile is like sunshine and it’s absolutely contagious.

Esther straightens her tote bag strap on her shoulder, feeling windblown but also more than a little triumphant for catching up, and she can’t help but match his smile. Ox bounds alongside the two of them, hopping up to lick Esther’s face, and she gives him a good scratch behind the ears. What a good fast boy. 

Ricky keeps jogging backwards and jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “We noticed you back a block ago!” he says happily. “Figured I’d slow down to be more your speed, I’m glad you caught up so we can jog together!”

Oh, her boyfriend is _sneaky_ and also absurdly observant. She thought she’d caught up to him all on her own. Well, Esther thinks, two can play at this game. She just flips her silvery bat in her hand, feeling the Umbral Arcana swirl and the spell focus in her hand. She casts Fly and Ricky almost trips over a crack in the sidewalk as he watches her feet lift off the ground. (Almost. Ricky Matsui is, above almost all things, committed to safety.)

“Didn’t mean to slow you down,” Esther smiles at him, “I think we can go more your speed for a bit. Race you home, sweetie?” 

And they’re off, Ricky bounding instantly into a run with Ox at his side and Esther speeding along, skimming across the ground. In no world is she going to win, but here they’re the exact same speed, racing back to their apartment with magic and muscle and one very good boy. There’s no prize, other than the sunset and an early dinner and each other’s company, in this little bit Esther gets to share of Ricky’s daily routine and in their apartment where they won’t have to lose a single minute waiting for each other. They’re perfectly matched, and there’s wind in her face and the sun setting ahead of them and her boyfriend in step at her side. Esther can’t wait to get home. 


	2. Gorgug & Fig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 22\. “I’ll wait for you.” + fig & gorgug
> 
> (some sig figs on tour! could be after sophomore year, but road trips are a liminal space so who knows baybee! thank you for being a patron of the arts jules :DDD this was very fun)

Gorgug’s happy and tired in the best way as Fig finally swings her bass onto her back and kicks the venue’s back door open for the both of them to leave. The night air’s blissfully cool after the hot spotlights and Gorgug just throws his head back and his arms out, closing his eyes under the starlight in the parking lot. 

Next to him, Fig bounces around like an overexcited german shepherd, shaking out all her limbs like she can dance on stage for hours and still be restless. She slings an arm around his shoulders (even in platform demonias, it’s still a reach. All his friends are too short). 

“Let’s go do something, I’ve still got so much adrenaline and I want to fuckin’ use it!” Fig yells, almost right in his ear. Gorgug just tilts his head over to bump against her skull, slow and gentle next to her overflowing vibrating energy. It was a really good show and a full house and the perfect way to finish this leg of the tour. They’re headed home tomorrow morning, and he can’t decide whether he’s looking forward more to crashing in his bed on the tour bus tonight or being able to crash in his bed back at the Tree tomorrow night. 

“Gorgug? What do you think? There’s a place I was thinking of near here that’s supposed to be really fun—“

They’ve already played tonight, and Fig wants to have fun and she deserves it, but he’s not about to leave his best friend to wander around the city at night. Fig’s probably planning on going dancing, or finding a bunch of their fans to chat up, or wandering around a Fantasy Safeway at near midnight. Gorgug takes a second to think about it, and he’s more chill right now than actually being exhausted. “I’ll tag along,” he surprises himself by saying, and good-naturedly lets himself be herded to the bus by Fig’s very insistent arm around his shoulders. 

They pull up and Fig bounds up to the door of the place she picked out, all neon lights and a bunch of people and an audible pounding bassline he already likes. “Go ahead,” Gorgug says, “I might not go all the way in?”

Fig stops with one hand on the door handle and looks at him, worried. “Are you sure?”

Gorgug nods as hard as he can, hair flopping a little in front of his face. He smiles and pats her head in between her horns, making her squirm and giggle. “I’ll wait for you, you deserve to go have fun!”

Fig nearly flies at him, wrapping arms around his middle. Fig gives really good hugs. “Your solos were so good tonight, I’m so proud of us,” she says (or at least he thinks she does, because she says it directly into his sternum and it’s a little muffled in his hoodie). And because she’s Fig and she can’t stay still for more than thirty seconds, she’s instantly whirling around and shooting him finger guns as she backs into the crowd. “I won’t be long!”

Gorgug shouts back, “Take your time! I believe in you!”

He finds a quiet spot where he can lean against a wall (no one bothers him, all of them clocking the bigass axe he’s keeping a hand on), with his headphones on and a little bit of wire he’s fidgeting with in his hand. He can text Zelda about tonight’s show and fiddle around with his multitool and people watch, and it’s just the right amount of quiet. He likes being able to feel the bass of the music—not a Sig Figs song, but still up his alley—through the wall, and there’s a comforting thrum of people that’s all the more comforting for the fact that he gets to watch it but not be in it. 

Gorgug keeps an eye on Fig, her tall horns bobbing their way through the crowd even though Fig herself is far too short to be seen with any reliability. She makes her way through the room, pausing on the dance floor or at the bar to dance or to talk or to flirt in a rhythm that comes as easily to Fig as her songs do. Gorgug thinks he’ll probably stick to the smaller, more contained rhythm of bobbing his head to the metal music of the latest playlist Zelda’s shared with him, but he’s just glad Fig’s having fun.

And then Gorgug looks up and realizes suddenly where’s Fig, no rust red horns to be seen anywhere as he scans the room. His axe is up in his hand in a second and he’s ready for—

There’s a tap at his elbow and Fig appears at his side, pushing her hair back off her face and holding out—is that a milkshake?

“Did you just order a milkshake at a bar?” He wasn’t ready for _this_. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” Fig says happily, handing him one of the styrofoam cups. Gorgug takes a tentative sip and it’s not spiked, just a surprisingly good strawberry shake. From a bar. 

“I know it’s no Basrar’s, and you’d be the expert on that, since you and Zelda have been spending _every single Friday afternoon_ there,” Fig says, poking him in the side. Gorgug pretends to shove her back, going easy but only half joking. Ice cream sundae dates are their routine and he won’t be made to feel bad about it. “But apparently it’s like a fun novelty here? Took longer than I expected, though, I just wanted to come here for that. Sorry. You good to go?” 

Gorgug pushes off the wall, following Fig out to the tour bus. The wait wasn’t half bad. 


	3. Aelwyn & Adaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 & 4\. quietly picks out the things you don’t like to eat on your plate and transfer it to theirs without you needing to ask them to & quietly gives you the things you like to eat from their own plate + adaine & aelwyn
> 
> (post-sophomore year, in the chaos that is a mordred manor dinnertime. at lydia and ragh’s dinner table there will be rice and there will be lumpia because my diasporic half-orc agenda continues (and also if family style asian home cooking isn’t the epitome of saying i love you through food i don’t know what is, the prompt made me do it!). thank you ket i hope i did your favorite elven sisters justice)

In the house that no longer exists, Aelwyn sat at their father’s right hand, across the table from her sister. 

In this house that Aelwyn sometimes cannot really believe exists, she sits next to Adaine, sliding next to her sister on the bench they have claimed for their own because Kristen and Fig cannot be trusted to sit on a bench for fear that they will stand on it to make proclamations, or try to vault spectacularly over it instead of sliding into their seats. 

When Adaine was little she used to kick her feet under the table, restless and reckless and making it her own fault when she stubbed her toe on the table legs or banged into Aelwyn’s feet. 

Aelwyn has forgotten many things about her own life (She has lived so little of her lifespan. She wonders if what she has already forgotten will fade away, just a few months in a sea of other forgotten memories as she ages, or if she will remember their absence forever). 

But these little annoyances from childhood remain—annoying and endearing and just so, so _Adaine_ —clear as day from when she was little too, still petty enough to remember those slights clearly. (Aelwyn wonders what memories Adaine has that she might call just so, so _Aelwyn_. She can’t think of anything worth remembering.)

Now Adaine doesn’t kick her sock feet but just pulls them up on the bench to tuck them under her as she sits. Something in the back part of Aelwyn’s mind reminds her that this is bad manners, but most of her honestly agrees that this is necessary at this dinner table, where the extra few inches of reach let Adaine beat Fig to the last of Lydia Barkrock’s excellent eggrolls. Aelwyn is learning things every day, lessons that come much harder to her than the effortlessness of abjurative spellwork or dragonfire conspiracies or how to flirt and act at Hudol parties. Now Aelwyn is learning to sit next to her baby sister at dinner without commenting on her feet on the chair; to dodge Ragh Barkrock as he carries a giant steaming pot of rice out to the table; to silently flick up a little arcane ward between Fig’s hand and the plate of eggrolls just in time for Fig to be distracted by Adaine starting to reach for the last one; to not be surprised when Fig starts half-jokingly hollering at Adaine for it. 

There are so many quiet things to learn and Aelwyn thinks maybe she needs to start a new spellbook to remember them all. There are so many quiet things to learn between her and Adaine, and there are so many loud things to learn about living in Mordred Manor in the bunk under her baby sister’s. On any given day Aelwyn doesn’t have nearly enough of them prepared, or maybe it’s that she doesn’t have enough slots to do all of them yet, but she wants to have them all to hand in a spellbook to try again and again and again until they come cantrip-easy. 

Next to her, Adaine is crowing gleefully with her eggroll in hand as Fig rolls her eyes and settles back in her seat. Aelwyn snaps back into focus (little things. One thing at a time) to find Ragh piling far too much rice on her plate, and she hurriedly shakes her head in a “no thank you that’s enough” because Ragh always says “tell me when to stop” and doesn’t pay attention to whether you’ve heard him. He just grins and tries to give her an elbow-bumping RVS secret handshake while also holding a very heavy pot of rice with the other arm, and Aelwyn will never have his dex but she does try to elbow bump him back. Adaine just leans over and scrapes half of Aelwyn’s rice onto her own plate, and Aelwyn’s fingers twitch to cast the same little ward to stop her. “What in the world are you doing?”

Adaine just puts Aelwyn’s plate back down, half her rice gone. “Stealing your rice!” she says as if it’s simple as anything. “Ragh gave you too much and I know you never eat more than one scoop, so I’m taking it.” She picks up a clump of rice she’d dropped on the table in the transfer—Aelwyn had noticed, and it was bothering her—and just reaches for the sauce bowl, pouring sweet chili into a little pool on her own plate and then adding a glob to Aelwyn’s own plate without even asking.

A year ago in their father’s house that no longer exists, Adaine wouldn’t have dared. Here and now in the manor, Aelwyn’s just confused. 

“Adaine!”

Her annoying, endearing little baby sister just shrugs at her. “Aren’t you going to want it for your eggroll?” 

Aelwyn looks down at her plate to see, sure enough, half of Adaine’s prized spoils of her little war with Fig on her own plate next to the rice, an eggroll broken in half with crispy skin and juicy filling. 

“You’re welcome,” Adaine says smugly, in the exact same tone that she uses to loudly declare victory over Fig in little dinner table skirmishes.

It’s good food, Lydia’s cooking unquestionably the best in the house, and eggrolls secretly are Aelwyn’s favorite of the non-waybread foods she’s started eating more of ever since moving into the Manor. Aelwyn knows more manners than to not take it. And knows better than to not say thank you.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and Adaine just shuffles over on the bench a little to rest her head on Aelwyn’s shoulder as she munches on her own half. 

Aelwyn is learning many things but she thinks she knows what to do here, just leaning her head over on top of Adaine’s and smooshing her cheek into the top of Adaine’s hair. Adaine can probably hear her chewing and it’s probably horrifically bad manners but Aelwyn doesn’t care to remember that right now.

Here, in this house that Aelwyn pinches herself a little to remember actually exists, her baby sister is pressed into Aelwyn’s side, picking food off her plate and trading back Aelwyn’s favorites in turn. Aelwyn dips her eggroll in sweet spicy sauce and lets herself not care about manners and thinks that for once she’s sure that this moment is worth remembering. 


	4. Riz & Gorgug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. heard you tell the same story multiple times but doesn’t point it out to you when you excitedly bring it up to them again + riz & gorgug 
> 
> (starting immediately post-fhsy, and a little more angsty than the other prompt fills so far because it deals with some of the aftermath of spring break. sometimes friendship is late nights and brownie recipes and old stories.)

There are forty minutes left until Elmville when Riz digs his claws into the headrest of the passenger’s seat and clambers over the seat backs to sit shotgun in the Hangvan. 

Everyone else is asleep, or as Riz suspects in Tracker’s case as she stays oddly still as a human pillow for Kristen in the backseat, at least pretending to. But Riz is quest-restless even though they’re heading home, and Gorgug’s awake because he’s driving, and both of their darkvision light up the street ahead for them. 

Gorgug doesn’t look surprised when Riz lands in the seat next to him. Of course. Because his whole party knows that Riz doesn’t sleep, or at least has to be told to, or has to know that there are hit points to be regenerated and a fight to be alert for the next day. 

Streetlights speed by and Gorgug brings the van to a smooth stop at a light, accelerating smoothly up afterwards to not jostle anyone in the backseat. He’s practiced, easy, calm. Meanwhile, Riz’s thoughts are a messy turbulent maelstrom. He can’t sleep, and after everything in the Nightmare Forest if he never saw a bed again it’d be too soon. But, forget sleep, his brain isn’t even letting him relax right now, and Riz is struggling to figure out the questions that are on the tip of his tongue. His fingers itch for a ball of red string, trying to figure out why he wanted to be up here with the passenger seat and the windshield and Gorgug.

“What’s being a barbarian like?” he asks quietly, and Gorgug doesn’t exactly startle but does tip his head to the side curiously. 

“Can I ask why?” 

“I’m—angry,” Riz says, surprising himself, but it feels true enough. “I killed Kalina, but she said she was with me my whole life. And I hate that.” He wants to hiss, to bare his teeth and make the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but it’s not Gorgug he’s mad at. “Sometimes I wonder if I should use that to. Hit things.” 

“Okay,” Gorgug says. 

“And you—you know about that. About being angry, and not being. As comfortable. Or at least you’ve said stuff like that.” Riz picks at his long fingernails, pretending to be nonchalant and not looking up to see if Gorgug’s insight is better than his shitty attempt at deception. 

“Tell me about why you wanted to be a rogue?” Gorgug asks instead, and Riz understands it’s not really a question. He trusts Gorgug. He thinks about it. 

“Um, my mom was always a detective, I guess. And my dad was a spy, but I guess I didn’t know that.” Riz spends a lot of his time thinking. He’s realizing he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about himself. Maybe he needs to make a new conspiracy board. “Uh. I guess the first time I ever saw Penny sneak attack someone was really cool, I definitely knew I wanted to do that.”

Gorgug makes a soft hm? noise that asks Riz to keep talking. “Because I was little and Penny’s little too, and we were at the mall and some asshole catcalled her? And oh, man, you should have seen her, Penny was probably an Aguefort freshman then? But she told me to hide behind this vending machine and—”

–

They’re all the way home, with the Mordred Manor crew taking their stuff out of the trunk while Gorgug and Riz keep talking. Riz finished his story hurriedly as they pulled into the driveway, ending with Penny teaching Riz to make brownie bars at Strongtower after the sneak attack incident and being so cool and badass and nonchalant about making that guy’s nose gush with blood. He’s talking fast and gesturing big like he doesn’t usually, caught up in a story that he can tell well and that he hadn’t thought of in a while. Him and his rogue friends are tiny badasses. 

“That was a good story,” Gorgug says. “Rogues seem pretty cool.” 

Riz grins, all his fangs out and happy in the driveway of the manor. “Thanks, dude.” 

“I think you can be angry and not a barbarian,” Gorgug says, gently. 

And “Okay,” Riz says, gentled. 

–

It’s the tail end of one of Fabian’s all-out summertime ragers. The Bad Kids are in a big cuddle pile that barely fits on the picnic blanket on the lawn of Seacaster Manor, and Gorgug’s at the very bottom. Riz is tipsy on half a beer (goblin metabolisms are not good and it’s not his fault) and he thinks Gorgug looks a little lonely, lying on his stomach and tapping at his crystal with all the wind knocked out of him from everyone lying on top. He scrambles down the pile of friend-bodies and sits on the grass by Gorgug. Riz racks his brain for something good to say. He doesn’t want Gorgug to be lonely, not when Riz is going to be up all night and Riz is usually the lonely one.

“Di’ I ever tell you about the first time I saw someone get sneak attacked,” Riz says, words big and bubbly and coming out too fast. He doesn’t care, he’s buzzed and happy and Gorgug looks like he could use a good story.

“I don’t remember, tell me,” Gorgug says, putting his crystal down face down so its glow goes dark. 

“Oh man, you’re going to love this story. It was, like, me ‘n Penny at the mall, and there was this real asshole of a dude, and I didn’t know Penny went to Aguefort but she took out this knife? And it was like she flew at him—”

At some point in the story Gorgug falls asleep, and Riz is more pleased than annoyed. He looks cozy. And not lonely. 

–

“What’s this, The Ball?” Fabian asks when Riz takes a fantasy tupperware of brownie bars out of his briefcase and puts it on the the table in the cafeteria.

“They’re sneak attack brownies,” Riz says. 

It evidently does not clear up any of Fabian’s questions. 

“Penny—Penny Luckstone?—they’re her recipe, she taught me how to make them the same day I ever saw her sneak attack a dude,” he explains. “She like, jumped out from behind one of those fake potted plants at the mall and slashed him so bad with a dagger and then she didn’t even get sneak attack on it but she also socked him in the nose and it was like the coolest thing I’d ever seen. And then she just went home and washed the blood off her fist and then we made brownies.” He puts a hand on his chest. “And I’ll never forget it.” 

“Okay, The Ball,” Fabian says, but he takes a brownie. 

Next to him, Gorgug’s already halfway into his second, nodding happily and energetically so his hair flops in front of his face. “I love that story!” he says. He’s all leaned in, listening to Riz’s story.

Riz lights up—he’s no Fabian, with expensive magical gifts, and he’s no Gorgug either with little artificed trinkets and sweeping big gestures. But he’d remembered the story and remembered the brownies and wanted to make some, and he’s just glad his friends like them as much as he does.

“Because the secret ingredient is sour cream,” Riz confides. Fabian fake-sputters, sending tiny brownie crumbs everywhere, and Gorgug swats at him. 

“You were eating it just fine before!” Gorgug says indignantly. “Respect the brownie, dude!”

“You’re right, Gorgug,” Fabian sighs. He takes another bite. “They’re not bad, The Ball.” 

–

Riz only dimly registers footsteps pounding up the stairs and also a greataxe brute forcing its way through the booby traps at his office door. His crystal is abandoned on the floor next to him, the last text he sent to Gorgug still on the screen. It’d been “Having a bad time. At my office. Can you come help? Thanks, Riz” and it’d been typed out with shaky fingers as his breaths started coming too fast, the way it does whenever he lets himself be alone in his own office for too long. Riz hates it but he needs help. He forgot the period on that text and it’s been staring at him for the past few minutes. 

His brain is whirring too fast—Shadow Cat, Kalina’s eyes in his own eyes, Baron in his mirror in his own office, darkness and danger and Fabian in churning waters, he died in that forest and so did Adaine and so could any of his friends, bullets dodged and bullets fired and it’s too much, too much. His breaths are coming too fast but also not fast enough. Riz feels suffocated. 

He’s wedged himself into his own briefcase of holding, the sides squeezing his arms in a way that’s grounding and comforting when nobody else is here in his office to help.

But Gorgug is. Gorgug is here to help now. He skids to a stop in front of Riz and sits on the floor and Riz only dimly registers it out of the corner of his eye where his head is curled into his chest trying to make himself small, make himself safe. 

“Riz, can I touch you?”

Riz does his best to nod and Gorgug just wraps long lanky boy arms around his torso, gently lifting Riz out of his own briefcase and settling him in Gorgug’s lap as they sit on the floor of the office. He doesn’t let go, just squeezes tighter. It’s so much help, and also— “Can you. Talk? Anything— Anything’s fine,” Riz says. 

“Um. Sure, Riz. I guess I can. I could list a recipe? My parents have been trying to teach me to cook more, for when we go to college in a couple of years. I’m sorry, I’m not like Adaine, I don’t have lots of interesting things memorized,” Gorgug says, apologetic. Riz wants to be able to tell him not to be, but he’s a little preoccupied trying to make his brain tell his lungs to breathe.

“Uh, so these are called sneak attack brownies?” Gorgug says hesitantly. Riz realizes what he’s doing and tries to laugh, the giggle interrupting the choked breath he was trying to take.

“They’re called sneak attack brownies because they’re my badass friend’s recipe. And he learned it from his badass friend. Um, I don’t know this super well, actually, but I really should by now and I’m just going to keep talking and if it’s wrong then I guess it’s wrong? I know that you need chocolate for a brownie. And eggs and sugar. You told me the secret ingredient is sour cream.”

Riz nods, thudding his head into Gorgug’s chest a little. He takes a deep breath. Gorgug’s hoodie is soft. And he’s a good listener.

“Right, uh. After sour cream. Flour. And butter?”

“The butter’s— the butter’s unsalted,” Riz manages to eke out, voice small and quiet and mostly talking to his own knees. 

“Got you. Unsalted butter,” Gorgug agrees, easy as anything. 

“Penny said— Penny said that dude she punched’s tears were salty enough, that’s how I remember it,” Riz tells him.

“Tell me more?” Gorgug asks, and he waits patiently as Riz lets his brain just focus on a recipe, an easy recipe and a badass story. It helps, to be given something focused to do. And Riz is just so, so glad he has friends who will give that to him, will listen over and over again when Riz needs to talk. 

And Gorgug waits. And Riz tells him. 


	5. Fig & Riz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 16\. knows your schedule from the back of their heads (and gets shocked when there is a sudden change to your routine) + Riz & Fig (& Kristen)
> 
> (set during the stretch of time in freshman year where Fig, Riz, and Kristen are all living in Strongtower together, because they’re good friends who make vending machine treks together and I for one always want to see more of that! Fig’s POV)

Leaving Gilear’s apartment in Strongtower instead of walking out the front door of her house (her mom’s house) over by the highway is—new. Fig can deal, but it’s new. She puts her bass on her back and walks down the hall and almost brains herself on a door that opens right into her path.

“Oh, hi Riz!” He’s wide-eyed and looks more awake than Fig feels at this hour.

“I didn’t know you lived here.”

“I’m staying with Gilear,” Fig says, and doesn’t elaborate. Riz just nods and hefts his briefcase and they fall into step down the hall. It’s new, for Fig, but Riz seems comfortable enough and she can be comfortable too. 

* * *

Almost every morning, Riz opens the door almost directly into her face (the hallways in Strongtower are narrow and probably a fire hazard, but it’s not like anyone checks) and Fig just dodges and then walks with him to school. Sometimes he talks her ear off about the latest thread he’s following in the rabbit hole that is the missing girls’ case; sometimes she talks his ear off about the lyrics she scribbled down right before bed. They’re both loud, but they don’t really clash.

Every afternoon, Riz disappears home to his apartment or to stake out some new lead or whatever smart person thing their detective does while Fig goes to Sig Figs band practice with Gorgug or to the diner to get a snack and talk to Gorthalax after he finishes up with the bloodrush team or to the hospital to try to catch a glimpse of Dr. Asha in the lobby. 

Whenever she gets home and walks down the hall to try to grab a snack from the vending machine, Riz happens to be there too, picking out his super salty super sour salt and vinegar chips or off-brand Monster Energy. Fig waves hi. Riz waves back. 

* * *

Fig keeps a wide berth so she doesn’t get smacked by the Gukgaks’ door but no one opens it. It’s only a minute later that Riz stumbles into the hallway, rubbing his eyes with one hand and flicking his tail irritably side to side as he looks hurriedly in both directions. He sees Fig and starts dashing to catch up. 

“I thought I was late,” Riz huffs.

“You’d still make it to school in time, it’s not eight yet,” Fig says, a little confused.

“No, I— never mind.”

He looks tired—Riz always looks a little tired, but he looks more tired than usual, his hair poking out in weird directions under his cap and one of the buckles on his briefcase not closed. Fig digs for something in the side pocket of her guitar case. “I got some of these chocolate covered coffee beans for Gilear, did you want some?”

Riz looks at her quizzically, but he takes some when she pours a few out of the bag into his hand. “I thought maybe the bean part would be familiar enough that he’d eat them, I’m trying to get him to try new foods,” Fig explains as Riz crunches down on one. 

“Thanks, Fig. I think Gilear would like these,” Riz says. “They’re pretty good. Not as good as real coffee, but.”

“Oh, like you ever drink ‘real coffee’ and not ice cold stuff from the night before.”

* * *

Fig’s leading Kristen down the hall after she’d shown up with only her wide eyes and her backpack and her copy of _On the Subject of World Religions_ glowing in a clenched fist. They’d gotten Kristen settled as much as possible in Gilear’s apartment, her stuff all set up alongside Fig’s, and now Fig’s trotting down the hallway twenty minutes after she usually makes her vending machine trek. She rounds the weird corner that the hallway has and finds four feet of very intense looking goblin blocking her way. 

“Where were you?” Riz narrows his eyes at her. On anyone else, this would look accusatory: he’s talking fast and staring her down and occupying the hallway like a tiny one-man barricade. Well, staring her up, actually—Riz’s height doesn’t give his attempt at intimidation a lot of help. But his real tell is his tail, arcing from where he was nervously fidgeting with it wrapped around him up into a happy question mark over his head when she appeared around the corner. 

“Aw, were you _worried_ about me?” Fig teases, and Riz pretends to roll his eyes. “I didn’t know you knew when we usually came through your hallway.”

“Of course I do,” Riz says, like memorizing your friends’ schedules is normal and not the kind of incredibly endearing thing Fig never expected from this ragtag band of Bad Kids. Like Riz, who’s probably one of the smartest people Fig will ever know, is going to use up space in that giant brain of his to do things like poke his head out of his door every day when she comes by and pretend like that’s nothing. 

“I’m sorry for being late,” Fig says, “Kristen just came over because her parents are being closed-minded dipshits and she’s staying with us now.” 

She points her finger down the hall, where Kristen loudly agrees, “Fear-based _motherfuckers_ ,” as she rounds the corner. Her backpack is still faintly glowing from the cantrip she cast on her copy of _On the Subject of World Religions_ , and it’s helpfully lighting up the hallway here where one of the bulbs in the ceiling has burnt out. Fig watches Riz clock all of this and not ask any more questions. He’s always asking questions, but he does understand that some things you just take in stride. 

“Do you wanna go to the vending machine together?” Kristen asks, and Fig already knows Riz will say yes before the words come out of his mouth. Riz always comes along to the vending machine.

It’s their routine.

“If I get a string cheese and you get crackers, we can make cheese and crackers for dinner!” Kristen says, looping an arm around each of their shoulders. She has to reach down to get to Fig’s, and even further down for Riz’s. 

“Let’s definitely do it. And also Gilear has a ton of yogurt.”

“I’ll eat the expired stuff, I don’t care,” Riz says, and Kristen drags him along down the hall. Fig doesn’t listen—she knows he’s going to get his usual off-brand but surprisingly good super sour sour cream and super stinky onion chips, and she’s gonna look disgusted at him and get herself a far superior bag of barbeque, and today Kristen will join them as they sit on the floor of Gilear’s apartment and eat anything but yogurt for dinner.

It’s their routine, and Fig’s proud to know it. 


	6. Fig/Ayda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 21\. believing in you even when you couldn’t do it yourself + figayda
> 
> (some post-show hurt/comfort heavy on the hurt on the phoenix tour after sophomore year. thank you, anon, i find ayda very fun to write but this is my first figayda! i hope you like it. )

Fig knows she’s being unreasonable, knows that she’s being childish, knows that the skin-itchy hell-rumbling _feels bad feels bad feels bad_ ripping through her mind right now is wrong and stupid and yet _why can’t she stop thinking it_.

That’s the thing about this particular kind of bad show—that she knows it was a bad show, and Gorgug knows it was a bad show, but if you hadn’t been listening to the same set for the days and days and days of tour for their second year now, you wouldn’t know. They keep the rebellious-happy smiles on their faces and they still jump and dance across the stage and the Infaethable Bass still makes glorious noise and Fig pours her heart out into a show even when from the very first chords she can feel it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Fig doesn’t know if it’d be better or worse if no one else in the world knew it was a bad show, and she doesn’t know which one is true anyway. But inside her own head it’s grating and terrible and Fig barely held it together until they got up to the hotel room here before she let herself collapse, angry and upset and unreasonable and not caring or knowing about any of it. 

The roar of the crowd tonight felt like mockery when Fig could hear every ever-so-slight way her solos weren’t quite right, could feel her fingers scrabbling to turn a mistake into a riff when she screwed up, could feel the talk sets not quite landing even when she puts every point of her charisma into it. The stage spotlight effects were just the tiniest bit late, and it feels like a perfect and perverse kind of validation when Fig would rather have ripped their too-hot too-red glow off her face before they could highlight every mistake she made, every fake smile pasted on.

She’s being childish, but right now Fig has wedged herself under the desk in this hotel room that’s the same as every other hotel room for two years of tour. Her horns are scraping the underside of the desktop with an excruciating sound that just might as well happen, and her back is pressed into the mess of cords sprouting from the outlet under the desk, and Fig’s digging her pointed fingernails into her own knees as she hugs them tight and feels like a toddler in a tantrum, unsure if she wants to scream or cry or hide or demand attention or destroy things or walk out into the city and keep walking until she’s far far away. She kicked the rolling chair somewhere away and couldn’t tell you where it went for all the gold in Solace. 

Her bass doesn’t fit under here with her, and Fig’s tossed it on the bed with more upset carelessness than she’d ever usually show her instrument. Fig picks at the rips in her jeans and scowls out of the opening of her little desk den, an opening that feels too big, letting too much of the world in even when that world is just the bed across from the desk, with frumpy sheets and a bed skirt that’s the same as every other motel anywhere in Solace, which Fig knows from experience.

Gorgug knows it was a bad show, and Fig can faintly hear him in the bathroom on the phone with Zelda, quieter and lower than other nights on tour. He called his parents earlier, too—she heard him singing quietly to them over the phone. 

Ayda knows it was a bad show. Ayda was in the green room and in the audience tonight, watching Fig fall apart, knowing so much more than Fig knows all the time, deserving so much better than the mess that is Figueroth Faeth on stage and off. Ayda knows it was a bad show and she’s not even in the hotel room with Fig right now, having disappeared somewhere off down the hall. Fig was too angry and caught up in her own mind to pay attention, which is just another reason Ayda deserves better right now. Anywhere that Ayda is right now is somewhere better than dealing with Fig in all her skin-itchy unreasonable childishness right now.

There’s a little _tic tic tic_ of giant talons on hotel carpet and a whoosh of fire-warm air as Ayda appears in the doorway, as infuriatingly and as luckily as if Fig had said her name thrice and summoned her. Fig keeps quiet and watches her girlfriend turn first one way, then the other, looking for her in a room with neither Fig nor Gorgug visible.

“I’m having a bad time, Ayda,” Fig says, voice quiet and hoarse both from the show and from whatever silent-sobbing-tantrum she’s been having under the desk. She doesn’t even know if she intends Ayda to hear it, but then Fig sees Ayda whip around and move towards the desk, even faster than walking as she beats her huge wings once to take a flying, bounding step.

Ayda doesn’t listen to any warnings Fig might try to give about how it’s “ _really a bad scene under here, you don’t want to see me like this_ ” and just crouches down so she’s under the desk with Fig, spreading her wings to block out everything except the two of them in this ridiculous position. Fig can’t see anything except her girlfriend and her big concerned eyes darting around Fig’s face and her fiery wings blocking out the world for her. 

Fig doesn’t even say anything, just reaches out and scoots closer awkwardly on her butt on the floor in the small space. Ayda doesn’t need her to say anything, just tangles her legs with Fig’s and loops strong arms around Fig’s back, holding her close. Fig takes an angry, shaky breath and feels it push against Ayda’s arms.

“You’re upset,” Ayda says simply, fingers tracing a shape on Fig’s back as she waits to see if Fig wants to talk or just wants to be held. 

Fig hisses through her teeth, irritated but not wanting to take it out on her girlfriend who’s barely been here for half a minute and who’s already making her feel so much better. Ayda’s fiery hair and wings are the only light in this little space Fig’s wedged them into, and they’re casting bright bright light over the both of them. Fig reaches out and tucks her face right into the crook of Ayda’s neck, so close to the fire of her wings that she can feel their warmth. Fig can’t see anything except the curve of her girlfriend’s neck and a little bit of her back and flame, flame, flame. She wonders if there are tear tracks visible on her face. The nice thing about tiefling skin is that no one can tell if her eyes are red from rubbing at them; the nice thing about Ayda is that her girlfriend doesn’t need to be able to see them to tell something’s wrong.

“It was a bad show, Ayda,” Fig whispers almost too quietly to hear except that she’s doing it inches away from Ayda’s ear. “I hate this.”

“I’m not sure I understand?” Ayda says, fingers slowing on Fig’s back as she picks her words carefully. “You are the expert on this, and if you do not want to elaborate that is perfectly okay, but all of your shows are good ones to me.”

Fig turns her head so her cheek is resting on Ayda’s warm shoulder and says, “It’s just little dumb things going wrong. And that’s why I’m doing this dumb thing, which is sitting under a desk and thinking you don’t want to see me.”

Ayda’s fingers circle over the knobs of Fig’s spine through the leather jacket Fig hasn’t taken off. 

“That doesn’t seem dumb,” Ayda says. “I understand wanting to get away from the world when it feels like everything is going wrong. Under a desk is an excellent location, because it is dark and quiet and Gorgug is in the bathroom so you can have this space for yourself.”

“Oh, Ayda,” Fig breathes. Ayda keeps talking, and Fig watches just the corner of her jaw moves as she talks. Ayda talks to her gently, like you’d talk to a slightly skittish animal. Every part of Ayda looks soft and warm, including the fiery feathers tickling Fig’s face.

“Your lyrics are extremely meaningful. I have memorized many of them, but I am still impressed all the time that you have written all of them.” Ayda says it matter-of-factly, and Fig blames the way that the words make her want to cry on the fact that it’s just been an extremely emotional day. “You are a very accomplished musician, and an even better writer, and an even better person.” 

“You’re very smart, Ayda, but how am I supposed to believe you when I can’t even deal with one show going wrong?” Fig tries not to wail it. She doesn’t know if she succeeds. Ayda’s wings make a soft roar, the sound of air and flame, and Fig pretends that it’s loud enough to hide the tremor in her voice. The childish panic. 

“I do not need to believe in you. Belief implies that my trust in you is something constructed in my own mind, when it in fact is, as far as I have been able to tell, something I can back up with evidence and fact.” Ayda says, and Fig pulls back indignantly.

She whacks the back of her head on the wall behind her, but it’s worth it for the little smile she can see as she leans just a little away from Ayda.

Fig smiles back, and she believes it too. Or doesn’t need to. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from I Fight Dragons' song of the same name, because it's a very D20 song and a very "I love you without those exact words" song to me.
> 
> [@mordredmanor](https://mordredmanor.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
